


Wake of the Flood

by dicksucker



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:50:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicksucker/pseuds/dicksucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a Pynch AU that takes place in 1973.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake of the Flood

Sunday  
June 10, 1973

“It’s not reggae man, just ‘cause a bunch of stoners listen to it.” Ronan Lynch kicked another perfectly-molded stone across the lawn. It skidded awkwardly across the grass before rolling in on itself like a dime and coming to a complete stop on the carefully-crafted driveway. He had been at this for approximately 5 minutes already, but he continued to kick childishly as he contemplated the night’s turn of events. 

He was currently standing with his back facing 4 out of 5 of his best friends, shoulders hunched and face contorted into a permanent scowl. No way was he going to a Dead concert. It wasn’t worth the free weed, nothing was. What was the point anyway ? You didn’t have to worry about paying for things like drugs and stoges when you were a Lynch. But, for whatever fucked up reason, his friends were eager to go nonetheless. 

“Caroline Kennedy is supposed to make an appearance,” Skov announced suggestively. “She’s got to be, like, our age for sure.” From the porch he could hear Kavinsky’s low snort in response. Blue eyes met brown, only briefly, a mutual understanding passing between them. Neither boy would be paying much attention to a hot teenage girl if she were to show. However, this information seemed to sit comfortably with Swan and Jiang, who snickered quietly behind Ronan’s turned back. With a sigh, Ronan kicked another front-yard stone just for good measure. He would go. Not because it was the respectful thing to do when the odds were against him 5-1, but because a Grateful Dead concert meant Robert F. Kennedy Stadium, and RFK Stadium suggested a trip to his brother’s apartment.

_______________________________

Ronan tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of his charcoal BMW. Prokopenko was seated next to him in the passenger seat, every now and then burying his head into the opening of the brown paper bag he held in front of himself. Ronan was suddenly immensely glad for the time that Matthew stashed the extra sandwich bags he’d gotten with his meal in the glove compartment. He was also beginning to grow very impatient at the choked gurgling sounds that poured out of Proko’s mouth each time he threw his head back in the bag. 

“You’re buying me air freshener. You fucking reek,” he said, pouting, as he reached out the window and grabbed the take-out bag. The cartoon burger printed on it jumped out eagerly towards him. Doing his best to ignore the grumbling from his needy belly, he gently tossed the bag behind him onto the back seat. He would wait until Proko’s hangover cleared out the poison contents from his stomach. With another quick glance at his friend’s retching, he shifted into 1st and went on his way. 

When they finally reached the empty road that bordered West Virginia, Ronan and Proko could see that the rest of their crew had already arrived. Though where there usually were two cars ready to race, only Kavinsky’s Mitsubishi sat on the spray-painted blue pentagon that indicated the start location. Down the drive a couple yards away was Jiang’s Golf. The driver’s side door stood ajar, as if someone had been in too much of a rush to close it. Ronan silently wondered what might happen if someone were to come down this road, as rare as it was, only to become immobile and stuck behind the flashy array of sports cars. 

As they emerged from the BMW and walked towards the others, they started to make out their friends amongst the group of individuals that swam in waves of glistening heat under the hot afternoon sun. Ronan was quick to rest his gaze on a familiar pair of hips that hung lazily against the side of the Mitsu. Lean, olive-skinned, arms swung helplessly, boyishly off of his lanky body. Kavinsky lifted his obnoxious white sunglasses up onto his closely cropped military cut. His eyes were hooded, gaze fixated on Prokopenko. For someone who tried to be very subtle about his admiration for Proko, K sure didn’t do a very good job at executing it. Ronan noticed quickly, that the dull purr he'd heard since arriving was not, in fact, as he thought it might be, the sound of his friends conversing, but the murmur of the car radio, turned up to it’s highest volume in order to please it’s many eager listeners. Under the rumble of the engine, Ronan could barely make out the man’s words.

“You talk about Japanese technocracy and you get radios. You talk about German technocracy and you get automobiles.” In a second each head swiveled to examine Ronan, who was famous for his loyalty towards his Führer BMW. “You talk about American technocracy and you find men on the moon, not once, but several times, and, safely home again. You talk about scandals and the Americans put theirs right in the store window for everybody to look at.” Who was this punk and what the fuck was he talking about ? Frankly, Ronan was sick and tired of outsiders’ ungratefulness towards Americans. First Korea and then Vietnam, it was all pointless to them. Other countries would never thank or appreciate the U.S.A. under any circumstance. Not after Truman dropped Little Boy on the Japanese. “When the Americans get out of this bind -- as they will -- who could blame them if they said ‘the hell with the rest of the world.’” Someone snorted from within the car and the radio was shut off.  
_______________________________

 

Declan’s penthouse looked no different than usual to the second Lynch brother as he stepped into the crystal-clean suite. This place always reminded him more of a museum than a home. Everything in it screamed, You May Look But Please Don’t Touch. The steel door shut noisily behind him, and he winced once in surprise at it’s heavy thud. Though it wasn’t yet dark outside, the place was illuminated with a ridiculous amount of light fixtures and corny-smelling candles. Sickeningly-sweet aromas swirled up and around him into the air. He thought he felt a little sick. 

“You’re late.” The voice came from far down the black hallway. Ronan checked his watch. It was 6:21. He was one minute late. What did it take to make this guy happy ? He shuffled uneasily towards the open door at the end of the hall. As Ronan peered into the master bedroom, he caught a glimpse of Ashley prancing in the far bathroom in nothing but her too-short towel looking like one of those glorified pin-up girls from Jiang’s Playboy issues. Immediately, he felt his cheeks warm up, though he couldn’t imagine why. He tried to picture what one of his friends might have said, if they had stood here in his place. A joke about creamy white thighs, or a cat-call, or some other form of deprecating self-pity, perhaps a sexist comment that would make them feel temporarily powerful. 

Declan Lynch sat hunched over his marble-white desk. He, like Ronan had often been described, casted off electrifying bolts of ferocity and confidence. The younger Lynch brother treaded into the room quietly, though he was sure his brother could hear the discrete pitter-patter of his boots on the hardwood floor. If it had been only a year ago, Ronan wouldn’t have bothered with the intrusion. In their past lives, he would have leaned against the frame of the doorway to their bedroom, cautious and respectful before entering. Now, personal space seemed like fiction to 3 brothers whose father had been brutally murdered 9 months ago. It was all bloody noses and bruised knuckles now that they were orphaned. The Lynches had once been a touchy family. Now, with both parents gone, wet kisses and tight hugs were replaced with ambitious punches and spiteful kicks. 

At the sound of Ronan collapsing onto the soft duvet, Declan turned around in his leather swivel chair. The lines on his forehead were scrunched together worryingly as his piercing blue eyes eyed his younger brother up and down. “Is that what kids these days are parading themselves around in now?” He shook his head in what seemed like disbelief, but Ronan knew better. Nothing shocked Declan anymore, at least not when it came to Ronan. He would always expect the worst out of his brother. Ronan studied his older sibling’s calculated gaze as it trailed down his olive-green bomber jacket, to his bleachers, and then finally down to the black Doc Martins that were muddy with souvenirs from outside. If Declan noticed the dirt tracked in and smeared on his sheets, he didn’t say anything about it. Ronan figured he did see it, then he thought perhaps his brother wasn’t as bad as he made him out to be. Or maybe, Declan Lynch was just sparing himself another argument with his new fiance about his hormonal, teenaged brother. Ronan figured it didn’t matter, he was glad for the silence nonetheless. 

After a long moment, Ronan sat up from the cushions abruptly. The blood in his head sloshed around, throbbing angrily at him with the sudden change. “I won’t be coming to Church next week,” he breathed out quickly. Declan eyed him warily. He shrugged his shoulders carelessly. 

“I’m done trying to control your life, Ronan. You can do whatever you want.” Ronan sent up a silent prayer for this response. He was acutely aware of how different this entire process could have gone. He treaded dangers waters here, but the boat he rode kept him safely afloat. “But you know how upset Matthew will be to miss you-- seeing as you only ever come around now on Weekends.” The boat was starting to capsize. Who was he kidding to assume Declan wouldn’t guilt him right off the bat ? In a very Declan-style, his older brother had already made him feel way shittier than deserved. “Where are you going anyway?” His brother asked with a hawk-like glare. The ship was certainly sinking by now. 

“A meeting,” Ronan responded under his breath. Though he spoke quietly, his eyes remained fixated on Declan’s icy stare. 

“What the kind of fuck meeting would you go to?” he snapped. Though it was obvious in the way that Declan studied the numerous pins and patches decorating Ronan’s jacket that he knew exactly where his brother was headed. His gaze fell on the most recent patch branded on Ronan’s left chest pocket. He sounded the letters out carefully aloud, probably to make sure he could hear himself correctly. “R...A...S...H…” He tried the letters again in hopes of making sense of the meaning behind them. Then he gave Ronan a quizzical look. “What's it mean?”

“Red and Anarchist Skinheads.” Declan's eyes widened. Definite Titanic. 

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to point out that Ronan is basically already a skinhead. Maggie painted it pretty clear. Shaved head, doc Martins… not all skinheads are neo-nazi, homo-hating asswipes…. Though those will be featured in this story.
> 
> Also. There will be Adam. Picture tight blue jeans on his groin and the butt. YES plz. 1970s rock n roll Adam is what drove me to write this story.
> 
> Yes we will also meet the rest of trc’s main characters, but this will probably focus more on Ronan and the Dream Pack because it is easy to write in Ronan's POV since we’re basically twins.
> 
> The radio quotes are real from around this same time. Basically this Canadian dude, Gordon Sinclair (a broadcaster), said this on the air on June 5th and it made headlines in da USA 4 dayyzz. It's called "The Americans"
> 
> If you're a Dead fan (as in the grateful dead) then you'll recognize the title. It's the name of an album they released the same year that this story takes place.
> 
> also, a warning or notice or whatever that weed will probably be heavily discussed and used throughout this story cause thats just how i vibe 
> 
> Also, RASH is an organization im pretty familiar with and it wasnt created until much later than this (in the 90's i think) but for the good of the story i made it existent a bit earlier. 
> 
> Fuck face, babe. This is for you.


End file.
